


The Body is His Book

by CoffeeWithConsequences



Series: Paper Tigers [2]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Anal Sex, First Time, M/M, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Sex, Smut, Stress Relief
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-02
Updated: 2018-04-02
Packaged: 2019-04-17 10:34:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14187009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CoffeeWithConsequences/pseuds/CoffeeWithConsequences
Summary: Love's mysteries in souls do grow,But yet the body is his book.And if some lover, such as we,Have heard this dialogue of one,Let him still mark us, he shall seeSmall change, when we'are to bodies gone.-John Donne, "The Ecstasy"Prequel toYour Fears are Paper Tigers, this can also stand alone. It is a first-time story in which Eames is surprised to find Arthur a completely different lover than he'd expected.





	The Body is His Book

**Author's Note:**

> Huge thanks to [kate_the_reader](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kate_the_reader/profile) for her encouragement to continue this series when I thought Paper Tigers was a one-off. Having written this, I am now certain there will be more.

If asked when he was in a reflexive mood, or maybe just the perfect level of drunk, Eames would say that his real skill, the basis of forging and conning and stealing, was seduction. He’d started seducing people well before he had a word for it, using his wide eyes and pouting lips to convince nannies to give him extra sweets, to turn the blame for pranks on his classmates, to convince his mates to do things they knew would get them into trouble. By the time he turned his skill in seduction on Cat Hurst, the first girl who let him touch her breasts, it was well-honed. From there, it turned to second nature, something he did to everybody, all the time, in every situation. Usually, he didn’t even have to try.

Part of knowing how to seduce, though, was knowing when to quit. Though Eames could nearly always convince people--people of any age, of any gender--to give him what he wanted, there were exceptions. Those exceptions started as challenges, exciting more than frustrating. But some of them weren’t surmountable. They were rare, but occasionally people were simply not charmed.

Arthur was among the uncharmed. Eames turned his talents on Arthur double-time from their first meeting, taken by his ass under his trousers, by his long, lean hands, and by his efficiency, which hadn’t yet become ruthless. More than all that combined, though, Eames was taken by Arthur’s complete disinterest in him. He knew Arthur was gay--there was no way to miss that, and Arthur wasn’t hiding it--but it did Eames absolutely no good. Even straight men typically looked at Eames twice, but that was twice more than Arthur.

Eames tried harder than he ever tried, using all the tricks in his playbook and even learning a few new ones. He tried coming on strong, he tried subtle, he tried demanding, cajoling, teasing, and complimenting. He tried casual touches and casual nudity. He tried different clothes, hairstyles, and colognes. He tried for two years, off and on, when he and Arthur and Dom and Mal were working together fairly regularly. Until finally, his pride wounded, he gave it up. It was good to know your own limits, he figured. He just hoped he never actually need to con Arthur out of anything, because he clearly wouldn’t be able to do the job.

After Eames stopped trying, his relationship with Arthur, such as it was, improved. Arthur still wasn’t interested in him in any non-professional way, but he grew a grudging respect for Eames’ talents on the job, and occasionally even let it show. They weren’t friends--Arthur was friends with Dom and Mal, and beyond that appeared to be unimpressed with the whole idea--but they were genial colleagues. For the next couple of years, Eames didn’t think much about it. 

Eames knew nothing about Mal’s troubles. She’d been out of the loop for a while, presumably taking some time off after the second sprog was born, and then she was dead. Eames mourned her, after a fashion, going to Père Lachaise and visiting Édith Piaf’s grave, laying lilies there for Mal. He worried, too (as much as he ever worried), about Cobb and Arthur, who were making their way across some of the worst parts of the world, taking jobs that ranged from risky to flat-out stupid. But it was really none of his business.

He worked with Cobb and Arthur once, not long after Mal jumped. They were doing a quick extraction in South Korea, just a bit of typical corporate espionage. They didn’t need a forger, just another set of hands, and he happened to be in the area. The job went off fine, but Cobb was a mess, and Arthur wasn’t much better. Arthur had become rather an expert at playing it cool, pretending nothing affected him, but there were a million tiny signs. He was thinner, paler, with dark circles under his eyes and his hands jittery from his constant coffee. His brusque-bordering-on-rude manner hadn’t changed, but he seemed less confident in his own decisions. It made Eames uneasy.

The next time Eames saw Cobb and Arthur, they were in Brazil, doing some pre-work for a job in Japan. It was the first time Eames had spent any time with Arthur when they weren’t working together, but something in Arthur’s manner, more tentative even than it had been in Korea, made Eames want to seek him out. They had drinks one night, and dinner another. Cobb was always holed up in his hotel room, which Arthur studiously avoided mentioning. As Eames drew a few details of the job Cobb was planning from Arthur, he got more concerned. They were crossing the line from stupidly dangerous to actively suicidal.

On the night Eames decided to talk Arthur out of it, they were in the process of shutting down the hotel bar. In town for document forgeries, Eames had an infinitely flexible schedule. Arthur and Cobb had successfully made contact with their mark, the mistress of their target for their upcoming job in Japan, and worked out how to get her into a dream. Their new architect was abysmally slow, so neither Arthur nor Cobb had much to do but wait. For the moment, things were quiet. 

Neither of them were drunk when Eames began. They’d just ordered their third round--Old-Fashioned for Eames, vodka tonic for Arthur. Their conversation hadn’t been job-related, mostly centering on European politics, the remnants of the Rio Times spread out on the table between them. Eames decided a direct approach would be best, so he changed the subject without elegance. “You have to know this Cobol thing is insane, darling.”

Arthur sighed, tipping his head back on his shoulders. Before he could answer, the waitress came with their drinks, and Arthur was quiet until she left. “It’s going to be fine,” he said, with no conviction. “We’ve done it before.”

“Two levels, you mean?” Eames raised an eyebrow. It wasn’t unheard of, but two-level dreams weren’t common.

Arthur nodded. “Cobb and...Cobb likes to experiment with that kind of thing.”

Eames did him the mercy of pretending he hadn’t noticed the exclusion of Mal’s name. “Still, experimenting with it and doing it in the field are different things. And these energy blokes are not fucking around.”

Arthur sighed again. “I know.” 

Eames thought for a moment that Arthur would say more, would agree to call the job off. He ought to have known it wouldn’t ever happen that way. When it became clear Arthur wasn’t going to say anything else, Eames plowed on. “Arthur,” he said, keeping his voice level. “You need to get out of this. You need to get away from Cobb. You need…”

Arthur cut him off, looking up with an expression Eames wasn’t sure he could read. “Mr. Eames,” he said, not coolly as he usually would, but in a tone that was nearly playful, “how could you possibly know what I need?”

Eames answered automatically, instinctively. Even if it came from Arthur, that tone of voice was one Eames knew how to handle. “I think I probably have a very good idea of what you need, love,” he said, dropping his voice an octave. 

Arthur blinked, looking momentarily stunned. It had been a sharp conversational turn, Eames admitted, but he was certain Arthur started it. Since he was quiet, looking unsure what to say, Eames continued. “But if I don’t know, you could tell me.” He didn’t overplay it, just lifted one eyebrow a centimeter and waited. 

Arthur drained his glass and looked thoughtful. “I don’t need to talk about Cobol anymore,” he said, nodding to the waitress and motioning for another drink. “I don’t need to talk about Cobb, or the job, or the danger.” He looked up and held Eames’ gaze. “In fact, I don’t think I need to talk at all.”

Eames didn’t try to hide the chill that ran through him. He hadn’t been at this for so long not to know an invitation when he heard it. “OK,” he said, looking speculative as he raised his own glass to his lips again, noting Arthur’s eyes following his mouth, “I can do that.”

They finished their next round before they went upstairs, both of them trying to remain calm, or at least appear to be calm. Eames was more anxious than he’d been in this situation in many years. It was no secret Eames slept around--he loved sex. He loved the chase, the flirtation, but also the consummation. He loved undressing someone for the first time, the surprises under their clothes. He loved learning new bodies, discovering what gave new partners pleasure. For someone who was fascinated by nothing so much as other people, sex was the best playground. But do anything enough and it becomes commonplace, and picking somebody up in a hotel bar and going upstairs with them was certainly commonplace for Eames. It hadn’t made him nervous in years. This time was different. This time was Arthur. 

In the elevator, they kept several feet between their bodies and didn’t talk. Eames’ head spun. It had been some time since he’d had a “plan” for how this would go with Arthur, and it hadn't ever started like this. He’d figured either Arthur would finally give in, almost reluctant, and allow himself to be slowly and painfully seduced, or it would be a frantic, near-violent thing, all teeth and grabbing hands. This was neither. Arthur had a half-smile, a look Eames didn’t think he’d ever seen on Arthur before. He seemed calm, neither angry nor unsure. 

After they walked into Eames’ hotel room, they looked at one another for several long, awkward seconds. This, too, was not what Eames expected. He’d assumed that Arthur would want to be the one who made the first move, who set the tone and the rules. But Arthur didn’t seem inclined to move at all. Instead, he looked curiously at Eames, his head slightly tilted, clearly waiting to see what Eames would do next.

It was about at that point when Eames realized he needed to stop overthinking it. Whatever Arthur was after, he’d apparently been serious about not wanting to spell it out, so this was going to have to be trial and error. That was fine, improvisation was definitely in his arsenal. He’d do as he liked, and see how Arthur reacted. 

Decision made, Eames moved forward without speaking, lifting his hands to hold the sides of Arthur’s face. It wasn’t like Arthur to tolerate being pinned in, but he didn’t fight it, just continued to watch Eames’ face with clear, curious eyes. Eames kept his hands there, his thumbs running lightly over Arthur’s cheekbones, as he leaned in and kissed him. The kiss was neither hard nor soft, not tentative, but questioning. Exploring.

Arthur kissed back, but not at all as Eames would have guessed. There was no efficiency, no neat corners or straight lines. Instead, Arthur opened his mouth easily, languid, letting Eames lead, following Eames’ tongue with his own like they were dancing. It was exhilarating in being so unexpected, and Eames found himself crowding Arthur back against the wall before he realized what he was doing, moving his hands from Arthur’s face to pull him closer.

Arthur’s body followed just as easily as his mouth. He wrapped his arms loosely around Eames’ neck, a gesture more trusting and affectionate than Eames would have guessed possible, and bent his body to meet Eames’, twitching his hips in encouragement as Eames dropped one hand to run along the small of his back, then over his ass. 

Later, Eames thought, mind spinning, he’d have to take a moment and truly relish the joy of finally having his hands on Arthur’s perfect arse. For now, though, he had no time to think about it. Arthur’s body bent toward him so perfectly, so openly, without resistance. He had so much to explore.

Finally breaking the kiss, Eames pulled away and met Arthur’s eyes again. His lips were red now, his face slightly flushed, but he wore the same expression, open and maybe a bit amused. He didn’t look unhappy in the slightest. In fact, he looked distinctly better than he had all night. Eames smiled. He was on the right track. 

“Come to the bed?” Eames asked, moving back a bit so that Arthur could push his back off the wall.

Arthur nodded, taking a few steps across the small room, then turning back to watch Eames walk toward him. Now that they were here, Eames remembered every sexual fantasy he’d ever had about Arthur, back when he was in concentrated pursuit. He’d wanted almost nothing so badly as to unwrap Arthur from his layers of suits, to slowly peel them away and see what was hidden beneath. Unless he was misreading the situation frightfully, he had permission now to do just that. No way he was going to waste it.

He started with Arthur’s jacket, pushing his hands under the front, then pushing it down Arthur’s shoulders from the inside. Arthur twisted his body to let it fall, but didn’t lift his hands to help. “Always wanted to get all these bloody clothes off you,” Eames murmured, fingers deft at Arthur’s tie, unknotting it, pulling it away from his collar, tossing it aside. “So wrapped up, can’t help but want to see what’s underneath.”

Arthur smiled. “So unwrap me, Mr. Eames.” There was a hint of challenge in his voice, maybe, but it mostly sounded lazy, fond, as if Arthur wanted nothing more than to be Eames’ gift to uncover. Eames’ cock throbbed. 

After unbuttoning Arthur’s shirt, Eames lifted first one hand, then the other, unfastening the cufflinks and placing them carefully on the table. He paused a moment to admire Arthur’s hands. Up this close, he could see a few tiny scars across the knuckles, almost certainly souvenirs from long-ago fistfights, and a thin white line up the side of one thumb. One day he’d ask about that one. Now, though, he let Arthur’s hand fall and pushed his shirt off his shoulders.

Eames would have guessed, had he been guessing, that sex with Arthur would be hurried, that Arthur would be insistent, even if it was subconscious, that there were many other things to be done and time couldn’t be wasted. This was the farthest thing from a rush. Eames took his time, and Arthur made no move to expedite any of it. After Arthur’s undershirt joined his shirt on the floor, Eames spent several minutes cataloging his pale, trim chest. He was leanly muscled, but thinner than he ought to be, his ribs visible under his smooth skin. He had almost no hair on his chest, but a thick, dark trail ran from his navel into his trousers. There were two noticeable scars, one probably from an appendectomy, the other larger, higher, and less well-stitched--a knife wound. Eames ran his fingers over each in turn, then pulled his thumb down the tempting trail of dark hair, to where it landed on Arthur’s belt buckle. 

“Take your shoes off.” Eames’ voice felt loud in the quiet, and a touch more demanding than he’d intended. He waited again for Arthur to push back, but Arthur didn’t. Instead, he leaned gracefully over to untie his shoes, then pushed them off his feet and kicked them aside, following with his socks. That task completed, he stood back up and met Eames’ eyes again. 

These were all such simple things, for someone with Eames’ experience. He’d fucked porn stars, had ecstasy-fueled orgies, used costumes and props, fucked in public and for an audience and just about every other way under the sun. But this--a bare-chested Arthur, taking direction, with wide, ready eyes and a clear erection under his tight little trousers--Eames could not remember the last time anything excited him so much. 

Eames wasn’t coy about unbuckling Arthur’s belt, thumbing the button of his trousers open, working down the zipper. Arthur stepped out of his trousers when they hit the floor, but didn’t move far away, seeming to want Eames’ eyes and hands to remain on him. Eames licked his lips as he ran a thumb along the waistband of Arthur’s underwear. He’d wondered, sometimes, what Arthur would choose, even imagined he went without under those cunning suits, but the reality was black boxer briefs, classic and well-fitted, like everything else. An erection pushing the front of them out at an odd angle was just as endearingly awkwardly sexy on Arthur as on anybody else. 

Eames took another long moment before divesting Arthur of his pants, running his hands over Arthur’s ass over the fabric, squeezing, pulling Arthur into him and kissing him again. He marveled at the loose-limbed ease with which Arthur met him. He wouldn’t have believed someone so tightly wound to be capable of it, at least not without significantly more coaxing. Am I doing this? Eames thought. Am I having this effect? It seemed he must be. Another thing he would have to marvel at later.

Finally, Eames pushed his hands inside Arthur’s underwear, one over each sharp hipbone, and worked them down his thighs. Again, Arthur was helpful, stepping out of them easily once they’d been lowered, barely taking his eyes off Eames. Arthur was touching him back, his palms flat against Eames’ chest, rubbing small circles with his thumbs over the fabric, but he made no attempt to undress Eames in turn. Eames was glad of it, glad not to have the distraction, but to be able to focus fully on what he’d uncovered.

Arthur’s legs were long and lean, more muscled than his upper body. Probably a runner, Eames though. The idea of running long, disciplined distances fit neatly with the other items cataloged under “Arthur” in his brain. They were covered in dark hair. His feet were long and elegant, his knees a bit knobby. His hip bones, like his ribs, stuck out more than they ought to. The dark trail of hair down his navel ended in a heavy thatch at his groin, trimmed neatly, but substantial--the waxed twink Eames had occasionally imagined disappeared into the ether, replaced by this much more real, and much more attractive Arthur. Arthur’s cock was at least mostly hard, a good size and shape, curved up toward his belly. It was cut, of course, which always gave Eames just a second of pause. The skin was dark and looked smooth. Reaching out, Eames ran a thumb up the underside, gently, and watched Arthur’s shivered response. Arthur didn’t thrust himself into Eames’ hand, but his posture remained open. He wasn’t opposed to being looked at, or to being touched. 

Eames thought of dropping to his knees--nearly did it, already tasting Arthur in his mouth, feeling the heaviness on his tongue. But he couldn’t quite stand to break the hot attention between them, the way Arthur was watching him, curious what he’d do, and clearly not interested in giving instruction. He felt powerful, as if he’d unknowingly tamed some sort of wild creature, accidentally overcome something so difficult to control. He had to see how far it went.

Eames stripped his own clothes off with considerably less fanfare, divesting himself of them as quickly as possible. He knew Arthur would look closely, but he was still gratified when he did, when Arthur’s eyes widened slightly as he took Eames in. Eames worked hard on his body, and had a lot to work with to begin, and it all showed. His tattooed chest was chiseled, his arms thick and thighs heavy with muscle. He wasn’t as furred as Arthur, the path down his navel more sparse and lighter colored, but Arthur followed it all the same, his eyes flickering with increased interest as they landed between Eames’ legs. Eames looked down, as if making sure what Arthur was seeing was what he’d expected. It was--Eames cock was thick and nearly fully erect, his foreskin pushing back, the head already shiny. Arthur looked up and met his gaze again, eyes dark and hot. 

Eames stepped forward and cupped Arthur’s face again, kissing him hard this time. He pushed their bodies together and hissed at the friction, and Arthur pressed back, panting softly into Eames’ open mouth. Eames tangled one hand in the hair at Arthur’s nape, pulling his head back to kiss him deeper, baring his throat. Arthur’s pliant body responded, letting Eames move him, graceful and inviting. 

They kissed and pawed at each other for a long time, standing only a foot or two away from the bed. When Eames moved his thigh between Arthur’s legs, Arthur rutted against it shamelessly, one hand on Eames’ ass, pulling him in closer. Arthur tilted his head back and let Eames’ lips and teeth map his throat, not even hesitating when Eames unintentionally sucked one spot long enough to leave a mark. 

“Jesus Fucking Christ,” Eames finally muttered, pulling back a moment. His chest was heaving, and he’d begun to worry he’d come all over Arthur’s hip before they made it to anything more than pushing against each other. “Lay down.”

Arthur smiled. He was breathing hard. “Yeah, OK,” he said. He backed up and fell across the bed on his back. A blush ran from his hairline down to his chest, but he wasn’t embarrassed; he looked elated. 

Eames lowered himself down too, taking to his knees, his thighs on either side of Arthur’s. He ran his hands down Arthur’s chest again, loving the feeling of the smooth, heated skin. “I want to fuck you.” It wasn’t all that common, for him, going that way on a first encounter, but if Arthur was really as willing as he seemed to lay everything on the table and forgo decision-making for the evening, there was no way Eames wasn’t going to take advantage.

Arthur nodded. “Alright.” The slight cock of an eyebrow let Eames know that it was just as much challenge as acquiescence. Still Arthur, after all.

“Hang on,” Eames said, realizing he sounded silly as he said it, but not much caring. He moved off the bed and to the bathroom, gathering supplies from his shaving kit. When he came back, Arthur hadn’t moved, was still lying in the middle of the big bed, still flushed and hard, still waiting. Eames gave himself a moment to swallow the disbelief, then return to straddling Arthur’s body, the bottle of lube and condom he’d brought thrown to the mattress beside them.

“How do you…?” Eames trailed off, knowing now that there wouldn’t likely be an answer. “Nevermind.”

Arthur grinned, but nudged Eames off him with a slight buck of his hips, then let his legs fall open. He didn’t need to say anything.

Eames took his time, to savor the sensations, and to slow himself down enough not to end up humiliated. He traced Arthur’s torso again, then focused a moment on his cock, slicking it and running his fingers around the head, exploring the weight of it in his hand, the texture of the skin. Arthur laid back, his body following Eames’ hands in subtle waves, his breath giving evidence to his enjoyment. Eames moved back then, to see a bit better as he dropped his fingers lower, ghosting over Arthur’s balls, then running a finger down the center of him, finding where the skin changed, soft and tight-furled. 

As open and pliable as the rest of Arthur’s body had been, he was not open here. He was tight shut, tensed. “Relax, love,” Eames murmured, running one slicked finger around the clench, slow and steady. He was not at all opposed to going slowly here, but wanted to make sure he wasn’t seeing a sign Arthur wasn’t as interested in this as he’d thought. “We don’t have to…”

“No,” Arthur breathed, answering before Eames had even really asked the question. “I want to. It’s just...been a while.”

“That’s OK, then,” Eames said, re-slicking his fingers and returning them to their slow path. “We’ve got lots of time.” He slid down the bed a bit, moving his mouth to Arthur’s navel as he continued to barely touch. He licked and nipped at his belly, licked a stripe over each hip bone, chewed lightly on the thin skin there. He avoided Arthur’s cock, but moved to his inner thighs, licking up to where his body met his leg, then gradually turning kisses to bites. As his mouth moved, Arthur’s body relaxed, his stomach muscles going slack first, then the tension in his thighs, and then, slowly, loosening at Eames’ still-gentle fingers. 

Once he thought it would be welcomed, Eames worked one digit slowly in. He lowered his head further as he did, licking around where he was pressing his fingertip. Above him, he heard Arthur hiss, his hips bucking up slightly and his body loosening noticeably. “That’s it, then?” Eames murmured, drawing his mouth away for only a moment. “You like that?” He didn’t wait for a response, just continued what he was doing. 

Eames worked with near-excruciating slowness, working the first finger until it met no resistance, then using his tongue alongside it before slowly adding another. When two fingers were moving easily, he sat up a bit to check Arthur’s face. He was stunned and overwhelmed by what he saw. Arthur’s eyes were closed, his head thrown back against the pillow. A light sheen of sweat sparkled at his temples, his hair a mess. One hand clenched the bedding at his side, the other was thrown over his chest, clearly forgotten. His mouth was open, breathing hard, making tiny, pleased noises. He was, so far as Eames could tell, very far gone. 

“Do you want me to let up?” Eames asked softly, running the fingers of his free hand up Arthur’s side and enjoying the way it made him shiver. “Is this too much?”

Arthur’s eyes flew open. “If you stop, I will shoot you.” His words were stern, but his voice was near breathless. 

Eames chuckled. “Can’t have that,” he murmured, and returned to what he was doing.

Eventually, Eames did stop. Not because Arthur asked him to, but because he couldn’t hold out any longer. Every noise he wrung from Arthur, every infinitesimal degree of loosening he coaxed from his body, made Eames nerves light up. He was so hard he was having trouble thinking, and knew that if there was any hope of making it to where he’d intended, he was going to need to go ahead and do it. He pulled away and sat up, reaching for the condom packet he’d abandoned before. 

Arthur opened his eyes halfway and watched as Eames rolled the condom on and slicked himself up. He looked both lazy and hungry, his body open in every way. Eames marveled, again, at this unlikely creature. He never in a million years could have guessed.

Normally, Eames would have asked a partner at this stage if they’d prefer to turn over or stay as they were. Having learned his lesson about questions in this encounter, though, he simply lifted Arthur’s hips and turned him over. Arthur gave no opposition, turning onto his hands and knees easily, his back already arching as Eames lined up. “Christ, your arse,” Eames muttered, stopping a moment to knead it. “Your perfect fucking arse.” 

Arthur didn’t answer, but Eames thought he might have giggled, and he unmistakably pushed himself back into Eames’ hands. Using one hand to guide himself in, Eames left the other where it was, squeezing hard enough to leave red marks on the pale skin. He went in all the way on the first stroke, confident he’d done enough prep work to suffice. Arthur made a low, hot noise, not surprise or pain, but not yet pleasure, either. Eames waited, then moved again, slow and firm, holding Arthur steady by the hips. It took three strokes, maybe four, and then Arthur arched like a cat, letting his head fall into the pillows as he raised his hips against Eames' hands. “There?” Eames asked, not expecting an answer. He already knew.

The rhythm was easy to hold once Eames found it. Arthur responded instantly and completely to each thrust, adjusting minutely whenever Eames did, rocking with him in perfect sync. It was so bloody good. Eames held out as long as he could, keeping it controlled, but the heat of Arthur, the sounds he was making, the perfect skin red under his fingers, bruised in the morning. It was more than he could stand--more than any man would be able to stand--and he was soon thrusting harder, more haphazardly. Arthur responded beautifully, arching against it, letting himself make noise. Vaguely, Eames knew he should take Arthur in his hand, but he couldn’t focus, couldn’t pull himself away from heat of Arthur’s hips under his fingers and the slick heat of his body, offering no resistance at all now, just taking him in over and over again. 

Later, Eames would wonder if he could have made Arthur come untouched, as close as he’d seemed before they’d even begun. But in the moment, it didn’t cross his mind. He couldn’t hold any thought in his head, and before he could stop himself, he was coming hard inside Arthur, pulling Arthur back on to his cock and holding him there as he rode through his last thrusts. “Bloody fuck,” Eames swore, gasping in pleasure and surprise, his vision blurring. “Bloody fucking Jesus Christ.” 

Eames let himself collapse for only a moment before pulling gently out, tying off the condom, and tossing it off the bed. Arthur had fallen onto his stomach and wasn’t moving, but Eames turned him over, manhandling him with complete inhibition now. Arthur’s cock was bright red and steel hard, so wet Eames didn’t even think of lube as he began to stroke it. Arthur moved toward him with his head tipped back, and Eames took the hint and found his neck, biting down where his shoulder met his throat as Arthur thrust into his hand. “Oh God,” Arthur groaned, soft but unmistakable, coming over Eames' fist and onto both their skin. “Eames. Jesus.” 

They both laid on their backs to catch their breath, a few feet between them on the big bed. Eames ordered his mind not to start yet, not to spin and wonder and marvel, just to let this feeling linger as long as it would. He’d had many great fucks, but this had to be among the most surprising. He felt wrung out, like he’d unintentionally stumbled on some sort of great and dangerous treasure. Elation ran through him, but also a kind of terror. Now that he knew, now that he was aware of the open, wondering, tractable Arthur he’d just had in his bed, how could he ever give him up? How had the one-night stand between colleagues blowing off steam turned into something he was even considering in those terms?

Eames’ new concerns were still fighting with his residual elation when Arthur rose and went into the bathroom. The water ran for a few minutes, then he returned and began to gather his clothes. He was quiet, but his face hadn’t yet regained the concentrated scowl he’d worn earlier in the bar. Eames rolled onto his side, ignoring the mess of the bed, and watched him dress. He knew he should say something, but for once, he had no idea what it should be.

Reading his mind a bit, Arthur looked at Eames as he sat on the edge of the bed to pull on his socks and shoes. “You don’t need to say anything,” he said, smiling softly. “It’s fine.” 

Eames shook his head in wonder. “You were...I had no idea…”

Arthur smiled a bit wider. “Shouldn’t assume you know everything, Mr. Eames.”

Eames smiled back, then turned serious. Arthur was clearly leaving, it couldn’t wait. “What about the job, Arthur? I meant it when I said you needed to give it up.”

Arthur shook his head. “I appreciate your concern. But it’s already too late for that. We’ll figure it out.” 

Eames sighed. There was no use arguing. No matter what other side of Arthur he’d just seen, this was still Arthur, and he was still going to see whatever mess he was in through to the end. “OK.” Eames rolled back onto his back, listening to Arthur grab his cufflinks from the table and refasten them, then pull on his jacket. “I’m going to Mombasa for a while,” he said finally, feeling more exposed saying it than he had at any earlier time. “If you need my help…”

Arthur chuckled. “We’ll be fine.” He hesitated near the edge of the bed, and Eames wondered, for a giddy moment, if there was to be a goodbye kiss. He wouldn’t have minded at all if there had been. By the time Eames sat up, though, Arthur was at the door. “It was good to see you,” he said, sounding sincere. “Take care of yourself.”

“You too, darling,” Eames said automatically, knowing even as the door closed that Arthur wouldn’t. He’d take care of Cobb, and his slow architect, and whomever else came along. He’d take care of the job. But clearly, Arthur would not take care of himself.

**Author's Note:**

> Please come visit me on [Tumblr](https://coffeewithconsequences.tumblr.com/) or read the rest of my fic here at [Archive of Our Own](http://archiveofourown.org/users/CoffeeWithConsequences/works)!


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